


Kiss (naked)

by yycouple



Series: Holmescest NSFW challenge [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yycouple/pseuds/yycouple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been called as "freak" for many years. Mycroft knew that too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss (naked)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for my dear Jac as my beta! It doesn't look like a NSFW but it is so warm so I am not going to change it ehehehe(x Hope you enjoyed it!

It was an evening in mid-summer. Mycroft was 20 and Sherlock in his blossoming teenage years. If you asked them what happen that day, they shall not respond or offer you a glance, and instead they would tell you to shut up. After all, there had been a long history between them, which could not be revealed. Just like no one dares to say Voldemort’s cursed name in Harry Potter’s world. However, it was a significance in their life, others should never be told of this. You might regard it as a secret laid between them.

 

Sherlock was not a boy who can fit in others so-called “peer circles”, he was remarkably clever and of course, found his schoolmates dull and boring. He didn’t have any friends, no doubt. That had made him seem so unique and to some, full of hatred.

What was even worse was that he was a target of notorious bullies at his school. Not verbal bullying, no one can outspeak Sherlock but his brother – Physical and emotional bullying, as nowadays people would classify them in these two criteria. They lashed out on him, a person who was merely different. You can see why he hated Charles Augustus Magnussen.

The last straw that broke a camel's back was when Sherlock found out a saucy fact about the leader of their class. His parents were going to be divorced. He told the others about how pitiful a child was to lose the bond between his family and gained the same amount of happiness by showing off his stupid toy. He must tell the truth, as his dear old mommy once said to him, “A good child won’t lie.” Sherlock was forced to stay behind at school that fateful day. (yes, that evening in that summer.) At the backyard of the school, violence was savagely ensuing - those fists pelting him like bullet ants on fire. For the very first time, the feeling of sheer desperation glowed like a well-fed seed in his little heart.

The sun sank lower in the sky, light of day draining away, giving way to the velvety darkness of night; crickets were chirping, dusky, colors subdued in the fading light. He lost his last ray of summer light on him. They mocked him, a coward who never fought back. They called him an idiot, and they called his brother a loser, how pitiful he was to have such a little brother as Sherlock. He wasn’t strong enough to fight back - he was outnumbered. He could not contain himself when he heard that word laid on Mycroft, the creator of his world. He was the only one who was (and of course, IS) cleverer than Sherlock – to Sherlock, Mycroft was the cleverest man in the world.

Sherlock was handcuffed subsequently. They tore his clothes apart, his shoes thrown into the lake. The warm air that used to comfort him, it was now having the exact opposite effect on Sherlock. They had used a wire made of metal, with the very fine, pointed tip to scratch on his body. They took off his shirt and indented “freak” on his waist. Blood trickled out when the wire tore into his bare skin. Their demented laughter, their demonic eyes……Sherlock knew they were mocking him on a whole new level.

He didn’t go home, with tears in his Crab Nebula, blue-greenish eyes. He ran and ran, despite the fact that he was wounded and the bloodied wound was very observable on his waist. They were meant to be a perfect creation by God, but the capillaries rigid and red in his sclera ruined them. He called his brother with the phone in the telephone box - he could not walk anymore.

“Hello?”  
“Mycroft, I need you. The telephone box five streets away.”  
“Stay exactly where you are.”  
He was exhausted. Sitting on the floor and looking through the glass, he wondered, where was he? His brother? His Mycroft?

“Sherlock, why don’t you…” It was unacceptable for him be on the street till eight at night. However, when his brother saw his wounds, all the words about punishing Sherlock were swallowed back in his throat. He hobbled towards his brother.

“What happened.” Mycroft asked, but he didn’t need to. He could deduct what happened just by glancing at Sherlock’s stained, sore face. But he wanted to ask - he hoped he was mistaken.

“Those idiots at school,” His voice trembled. “They beat me and slashed the word ‘freak’ on my waist.“ He tried to stay calm, pretend not to get involved, or that he wasn’t a victim of the school bullies. Sadly, he couldn’t. The pain grew stronger and more intense, and tiny beads of sweat started rolling down by his temples, one after another, without a sign of stopping.

Fiery fury was smoldering in the small narrowed eyes of his brother. He stepped forward and picked Sherlock up. He would have refused his brother action if he had enough strength, but he didn’t have it. He rounded his arms around his brother neck to prevent himself from collapsing.

They went back home. Mycroft laid him on his bed. He rubbed his fingers along the silken mattress. His little brother removed his clothes and pants. When he was naked, wounds of untold magnitudes could be seen on different places. His four limbs, his waist.

The wound needed to be cleaned. Mycroft took the first aid box from the kitchen–lucky enough, their parents were out for a theatrical performance in the town – no time would be wasted for explanation. Sherlock gasped when the cotton stained with the isopropyl alcohol touched his wounds, although his brother tried his very best to be ever so gentle. Bandages were used to wrap up the wound. The word on his waist tore Mycroft’s heart apart – He wish the whole world knew his beloved little brother wasn’t a freak at all.

"Myc, is there something wrong with me.”

He asked, in a childish tone, voice quivering.

“No, they just envy you, who is cleverer than they will ever be.”

Mycroft lifted his arm and sunk his palm into his little brother’s dark, curly hair. He pressed his soft, moist lips on Sherlock’s smooth forehead, just like kissing him goodnight. His little brother also reverently returned him a kiss, on his cold, damp lips. Mycroft would not forget the softness of his thin plump lips, never.

“Just do what you like, just be who you are, Sherlock.”

Mycroft recalled why he chose to step on the path to being a politician– it was a defensive measure, to protect his younger sibling. No one knew, not even Sherlock. On the other hand, no one could ever hope to comprehend Sherlock’s complex, intricate, mind palace. No one knew he kept the events of this day nicely in a secret room. No one would ever discover it. And it would linger forever in his mind, engraved in his heart, and return to haunt him and stir troubled dreams of that cold, moist night when he felt the lips of his brother upon his, electricity coursing through his body, igniting a small flame in him.


End file.
